


A Series of Poor Decisions from Stiles Stilinski

by Electricviolinist



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Business, Business AU, Businessman Peter, Businessman!Derek, Drunk Sex, M/M, Stiles Gets Drunk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-08-16 14:37:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8106139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Electricviolinist/pseuds/Electricviolinist
Summary: He knocked. Which was probably not a necessary move as he’d been called in. And they were expecting him. But… yeah.“Enter,” an amused voice called from inside the conference room of doom.He fumbled with the door handle, his sweaty hands not gripping tight enough at first, and then on the second try, he managed to push it open and stumble into the room.He needed coordination lessons.“Hi,” he said. “Uh… Good…. Morning.”Two men and a woman sat behind a table, the woman in the centre clearly the eldest, in her late forties or even fifties. The man on her right was younger than her, but not young. And the man on her left was hot as fire. White hot. Hot as the sun. Hotter. And distracting.“Mr Stilinski,” the woman greeted, warmly. “Thank you for coming to see us today.”...Stiles goes for an interview. It doesn't go well. So he makes some decisions. They may not be the best he's ever made, but Stiles can totally deal with it. Probably.





	1. Chapter 1

“Mr Stilinski?”

Stiles leapt to his feet, or at least towards his feet. His legs weren’t really expecting the move, so he sort of stumbled, and ended up doing a kind of awkward dance. The receptionist didn’t react to his lack of coordination, except for a tiny curl of her lip. She wasn’t impressed.

“Uh… I guess it’s my turn?” Stiles asked, stupidly.

She offered him no kindness. She didn’t even answer. Her brown eyes were pitiless as she nodded towards the daunting door at the end of the corridor. The conference room of doom.

“Yeah, I guess it’s my turn,” Stiles repeated.

He puffed out a nervous breath, tried to surreptitiously get rid of some of his excess energy with a shake of his legs and hands. It had never worked. He felt like should he wiggle, or maybe just full on explode. Something.

He knocked. Which was probably not a necessary move as he’d been called in. And they were expecting him. But… yeah.

“Enter,” an amused voice called from inside the conference room of doom.

He fumbled with the door handle, his sweaty hands not gripping tight enough at first, and then on the second try, he managed to push it open and stumble into the room.

He needed coordination lessons.

In fact, he’d been much better recently. At school he’d always been a flailing mess, a nerd with no style whatsoever. He had thought he’d managed to calm down at college, get his Adderall dose right, sort out his concentration enough to get by.  He’d managed to get this interview with a kickass application which included a series of slight over exaggerations of his experiences volunteering and his Saturday job at a coffee bar.

He could totally do this.

“Hi,” he said. “Uh… Good…. Morning.”

Two men and a woman sat behind a table, the woman in the centre clearly the eldest, in her late forties or even fifties. The man on her right was younger than her, but not young. And the man on her left was hot as fire. White hot. Hot as a solar flare. Hotter. And distracting.

“Mr Stilinski,” the woman greeted, warmly. “Thank you for coming to see us today.”

“Uh, thank you!” said Stiles, “I mean, for the opportunity.”

The woman smiled, and Stiles took a moment to stare at the floor and scratch his head.

“Well, let me introduce you around,” the woman offered, “I’m Talia Hale, I’m…”

“I know!” Stiles cried.

The woman stopped talking for a moment, in surprise, and Stiles flailed once more.

“I mean… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I… I read up.  On the company. Obviously.”

Talia Hale nodded, “Obviously.”

Stiles kept talking. More talking to cover the silence of his huge dorkiness. “So… obviously, I know you’re … Talia Hale, CEO, founder, all round… Goddess of awesome business ideas and … you know…”

Talia took a few moments to form words. “Uh, thank you, Mr Stilinski…”

“Stiles,” said Stiles.

Talia smiled. “Stiles,” she repeated, “I was a bit worried about mispronouncing your first name. I’ve never read it before… is it…?”

“Polish,” Stiles nodded, “But no one’s called me that in forever. Stiles is fine.”

“Good,” said Talia. She turned to the man on her right. “This is…”

“Peter Hale,” said Stiles, “Head of marketing and PR.” He smiled at the amused look on Peter Hale’s face. At the raised eyebrows. “Uh… I’m not, you know, some crazy stalker!” Stiles rushed to add. “I just… looked up who was who. And everything.”

Peter Hale’s lip twitched in a half grin.

“And so I guess you know who this is?” Talia asked, indicating the Greek God of a man on her right. The cool grey eyes, the slightly unshaven look, the cheekbones, the muscles.

“Uh… no,” said Stiles. “Sorry, he wasn’t on the website. I mean, you weren’t on the website. I mean, I’d totally remember you if you were!”

All three of his interviewers looked at him as though he’d grown a new head.

“Uh… that was… not appropriate,” said Stiles. “Uh… Can I come in again?”

“Why don’t you just tell us exactly what you think you bring to this role?”

Peter Hale, slightly acidic tones and hard eyes.

But the other guy, the one as hot as sun, gave a snort. The kind that spoke more words than anyone, ever. Designed to tell Stiles he thought he was some piece of useless shit with no fucking clue what he was doing. And that he was never getting hired. Which, totally annoying. And unkind. And Stiles hated Greek God guy more than Jackson Wittemore. More than the entire high school lacrosse team. More than needles.

Anger was an excellent focuser.

“Well, as you can see from my application, I was first in my in business class, with a major in digital marketing and online platforms. My efforts for my previous company doubled their footfall and increased their profits by eighty percent. And your online presence is so small it would have been pathetic in 2002.”

An awkward silence followed, but a different kind of awkward.

“We make use of all the major social networks…” the youngest man said, icily.

“Oh, right, of course, welcome to 2008.”

And then he blew them out of the water with a marketing plan he’d designed in the last two weeks between the making of flat whites and the quiet stalking of Lydia Martin’s academic career. He probably needed to work on his presentation skills. He swore more than once. He came across as an absolute jerkoff, but he’d already fucked up, so it did not matter.

By the time he finished talking, which he managed to do before his monologue turned into a lecture on the nature of truth and the established media, and with a smirk and inappropriate ‘booyah!” his three interviewers were staring at him. Peter Hale was smirking, like he was one step from laughing, while the other two were just judging him, quietly.

“Well, you’ve certainly given us a lot to think about,” said Talia after a full five seconds of painful silence.

Peter Hale’s smirk turned into an amused grin. Stiles didn’t get the impression he was being laughed with.

“Meaning, thanks for your time but you can piss off now?”

Talia’s eyes dropped to the table very briefly. The younger man beside her scrunched up his eyebrows in a frowny face that could win world records if there was a way to measure frowning.

“Thank you for your time, Mr Stilinski,” said Talia. She stood up and held out a hand for Stiles to shake. Stiles rolled his eyes but took the hand. Just because he’d failed spectacularly to get the job didn’t mean he should be a jerk. Talia smiled in that professional and meaningless way that proper adults learn somewhere along the way. The young guy barely acknowledged Stiles’ gaze, and Stiles decided he didn’t want to catch Peter’s, so he did a general sort of salute to the room and then departed, his heart sinking, and his shoulders drooping.

When he got out of the building, he crouched on the street and let out a string of angry words. It was like he couldn’t just … shut up. Something inside him just had to talk, because the consequences never seemed to matter. And when people were looking at him expectantly like that, he had to say exactly what he was thinking. Every fucking word.

A few people made wide circles around him as the passed, and Stiles groaned.

“Bar,” he said to himself, loudly.

He went to the one Allison was working at. It was a nice place, not too much of a dive, but not so classy it became expensive. Allison was by the bar when Stiles arrived, with enough of an expectant look to let Stiles now she hadn’t written off his chances of getting this this job. Which was nice of her.

“All the alcohol please, barmaid,” he said, instead of a greeting.

Allison scrunched up a nose in sympathetic solidarity, and went about opening a bottle of beer for him. “Wanna talk about it?” she asked, genuinely asking, not pushing for a chat nor discouraging one. It was nice.

“Nah,” Stiles said, and then took a long sip. “Just… more beer. And maybe some vodka. And, you know, all the alcohol.”

A beers, two shots and an interesting cocktail later, Stiles wondered if he were drunk yet.

Two strange pink concoctions after that, he wondered if he should be saving money. Thankfully by then it was a more socially acceptable drinking time and other people seemed happy to buy his drinks for him.

One of those who seemed to want to keep him talking was a nice, if lonely-looking woman in her fifties. Stiles was fine with a bit of flirting. He’d discovered his attractiveness was limited when dealing with people his own age, but people noticeably older seemed to find him totally charming, particularly if he was rude. He told her his woes, adding various flourishing details to emphasise the unpleasantness of his situation until she also bought him dinner.

Stiles took some time to genuinely consider the merits of becoming a kept man.

Before the food arrived, Peter Hale appeared dramatically at Stiles’ side and smoothly asked to join them.

Stiles pretended he hadn’t spilt his cocktail over his own jacket and the woman’s handbag, and simply flailed.

The woman smiled at those stupid blue eyes and said, “Hey there.”

Stiles stared in total and complete betrayal, as Peter Hale stole his fucking meal ticket. The bastard didn’t even need a meal ticket! He was employed. He probably earned ten times what Stiles’ dad earned. He probably could pay Stiles’ rent for a five years without even noticing.

Peter Hale smirked widely at Stiles every time he said something immensely witty that made the woman laugh. Stiles realised he’d probably have more right to his anger if he’d bothered to find out the woman’s name, but Peter was fucking shameless. He flattered her and teased her in turn, had her laughing and touching his arm, and had her barely looking at Stiles.

When their food arrived, Peter rolled his eyes and said “If only you’d asked me before you ordered, I could have taken you to one of the better restaurants.”

Stiles snorted, pretending he didn’t know how rich Peter was. Peter didn’t react appropriately, (because he didn’t understand that the appropriate behaviour of an interviewer after an interview is not to appear at the same bar as the interviewee and steal said interviewee's potential sugar mommy). At that moment he gave Stiles a wicked smile and said “We could be having oysters right now.”

The woman laughed. Apparently oysters were known as an aphrodisiac. Peter lightly rebuked Stiles for not knowing, to which Stiles replied, “Dude, I’m twenty two, I don’t need to know about aphrodisiacs.”

The woman laughed again. Either she didn’t notice the way Peter and Stiles’ eyes were glued to each other, or else she was enjoying their competition. Stiles probably didn’t blame her. She probably hadn’t had this much action in weeks.

“I haven’t had enough to drink yet,” said Stiles, “Peter, I think it’s your turn to buy?”

The older man quirked his eyebrows, raised a hand slightly, and summoned a waitress from the ether. Or something. It was fucking smooth.

He paid for another round and gave a tip that would make the waitress’ week, which probably explained the ethereal summoning skills. Stiles glared. He fucking hated this guy. So when Peter went to the bathroom, he made the only natural move. He followed him.

“Hey, asswipe!” he began.

He saw Peter’s smile in the mirror.

“Can I help you, Stiles?” he asked.

Stiles was really drunk. “Yeah, dickwad, you can back the fuck off!”

Peter smiled even more.

“Really?” he prompted, conversationally.

Which was somehow even more annoying than anything else the bastard had already done.

“Yeah, really!” Stiles snapped, “I was getting drunk at someone else’s expense and then you come along and…”

“And you’re still getting drunk on someone else’s expense,” Peter pointed out.

Stiles stopped for a moment to think about that.

“Well, yeah, but… I was… you know…”

“Are you trying to tell me your clumsy attempts at seduction were prompted by more than just the desire to get drunk?” asked Peter, curiously.

Stiles tried to answer twice before he actually had words. On the third time he changed tack.

“It’s totally rude for interviewers to follow interviewees to the bar, you know!”

“Is it?” Peter asked, quietly, “I guess that would depend on whether or not they got the job.”

Stiles froze, “Wait, what?” he asked.

“I said…”

“No, shut up!” Stiles snapped, “Did I get the job?!”

Peter put his head on one side and sighed, like it was stupid that he’d even asked. “What do you think?”

Stiles had to think it through twice before he remembered that of course he hadn’t got the fucking job. “What… that’s… you’re a total dick!”

Peter washed his hands and smiled at him. “So… did you want to fuck, or what?”

Which, again, fucking rude. Except… Stiles sort of did. He was drunk and horny and worked up.

“Uh…”

“I need a yes or a no, Stiles,” said Peter, “I want to make consent explicit right now.”

Stiles stared at his face, at the stupid classic lines, the firm body shape. “Is this like, one of those sexual harassment cases? Like, you’re offering to give me the job if I sleep with you? And then I get to sue you for giving the offer?”

“I can tell you that whatever happens with me will have absolutely no impact on your employment status,” said Peter, “Does that help?”

Stiles thought about it. He hadn’t got the job, so it didn’t really matter, did it? He’d have preferred it be the other guy making this offer, but this would probably be good for him.

“OK,” he said. Probably stupidly.

“OK that helps or OK let’s fuck?” asked Peter.

Stiles licked his lips nervously, “You’re really into explicit consent, aren’t you?”

“Well, I don’t have any shortage of more than willing partners, and anything to do with lawyers bores me to death,” said Peter. “So, your answer?”

Stiles’ skin had somehow become too hot. And the clothes seemed massively unnecessary. “Let’s fuck,” he said, and bit his lip.

Peter Hale nodded, as though it was only to be expected that a man at least ten years his junior, maybe twenty, would jump at the chance to have sex with him. Then he pushed Stiles against the side of the cubicle and kissed him to within an inch of his life. The force of the kiss left Stiles reeling and breathless and fucking horny. Literally, Stiles was one step away from rubbing himself on Peter’s leg which had somehow slipped between his own. His hands were sort of pathetically clutching at Peter’s clothing. And he was shaking like a heroine from a black and white movie.

“Fuck,” he whispered, when his lips had enough freedom to form the word.

“Regretting your decision?” Peter asked.

“No,” Stiles replied, hurriedly. “But that is not the sort of kiss that should happen in a restroom of a nice bar.”

“Then let’s take it back to mine,” Peter suggested.

“What about… uh…?” he pointed to the bar, to where some poor woman was waiting for them.

“What’s her name?” Peter asked.

“Uh… Kirsty?”

“Did you make that up?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go.”

And Stiles had to admit Peter’s logic was flawless.

Thankfully, Peter didn’t fuck Stiles in the taxi.

Unfortunately, he did have him doing almost everything else. It got so shameless, Stiles wondered if Peter had a deal with the driver for a show. Or maybe the driver knew he’d get a generous tip, because there wasn’t one sound of complaint as Peter’s hands roamed Stiles’ body freely. If Stiles’ brain had been capable of more than the mushy mess it had fallen into, he would have been worried they’d be arrested. Also, more worried whether this was not a really totally stupid idea. He hadn’t even told Allison where he was going.

He moaned like an enthusiastic porn star more than once, and it wasn't even intentional. When Peter did something that was probably illegal to his nipple, he cried out.

“This is how loud you are already,” Peter hissed in his ear, “I can’t wait to hear the sounds you make when my cock is pounding your ass.”

Which should have been a horrid threat of sexual violence, but totally wasn’t because Stiles was ready for that. He really wanted that. So, maybe he’d have preferred the other guy, the one sitting on the other side of Thalia Hale, but that wasn’t an option and this was, and tomorrow he could forget all about it all.

Peter Hale lived in a beautiful apartment that was bigger than plenty of public buildings. Stiles decided that the man had a big enough head already, so the only acceptable choice was to be a dick about the whole thing.

“So, you had the Vanity Fair guys do your décor, huh? Were House and Home not available?”

Peter barely raised an eyebrow. It was like he already knew Stiles’ shit and wasn’t going to react. Which was super annoying.

“So, this is how the modern Manhattan Bachelor lives, is it?” Stiles asked.

Again, no reaction. Peter just made a drink. Just the one, Stiles realised. He watched long enough to know Peter was making it for himself, before he spoke out.

“So, modern Manhattan Bachelor has a hot young thing in his apartment, and doesn’t offer them a drink? I’m sure that’s not something your etiquette teacher would approve of.”

Peter took a small sip of his amber liquid. “You don’t need more to drink,” he told him with a smile. 

“Uh, rude!” Stiles snapped.

“When I fuck people, I expect them to remember in the morning,” Peter told him. “It’s not usually a problem.”

Stiles wondered why they weren’t fucking already. Peter took his drink and walked away from him. Stiles stared but only for a moment before he followed at a stumbling dash.

Peter’s bedroom was decorated with the same tasteful, masculine elegance as the rest of the apartment. The bed was huge, and beautiful and huge. Stiles hoped it wasn’t overcompensating.

“You’ll see for yourself in a few moments,” said Peter, conversationally.

Which probably meant Stiles was more drunk than he should be, if he were speaking such thoughts aloud without realising. He tried to style it out.

“Promises, promises,” he said, which sounded pathetic even to his drunk brain. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” Which was worse.

Peter put his drink down, and turned to face him. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

Stiles nodded. “Yep, hot as fuck, that's me.”

Peter smirked, and sat on the bed. “Take your clothes off,” he instructed.

Stiles scowled. “You’re lucky you sound hot giving orders,” he said.

He fumbled with his tie and the top few buttons of his shirt until he could pull the whole thing over his head. It was not a strip tease of any kind. The pants followed, after an unsightly wriggling with the removal of the shoes he’d forgotten about.  When he did look at Peter once more, the older man was near to laughing.

“What, this not your thing?” Stiles asked, angrily, “You picked me out, dude. You started it. I never pretended to be anything other than a hundred and forty seven pounds of pale skin and fragile bones.”

“I can find you amusing and attractive simultaneously,” said Peter.

Stiles scowled a moment longer, then decided he didn’t care and wanted sex. He wanted more of the groping from the taxi. Why had that stopped? Something to do with having to walk into the building. It didn’t matter.

He crossed the room and climbed onto Peter’s lap, attaching his lips to Peter’s. Peter grunted a little when Stiles’ knees dug into his, but manhandled Stiles legs enough to rearrange them, making Stiles sink lower, a leg on each of Peter’s, and all the time their lips were joined. They stayed that way for a while, kissing and groping each other, as Stiles tried to pull off Peter’s clothes while the older man distracted him with wicked actions. Stiles complained wordlessly at the unfairness, but the grumbles weren’t doing anything to stop Peter being a dick.

Just before Siles could resort to the destruction of a shirt that had probably cost more than everything Stiles owned, Peter shoved him off, and down onto the bed. Stiles whined, needy and more pathetic than even alcohol could excuse. But when Peter took his own shirt off, Stiles forgave the whole thing, and just lay on the bed, making grabby hands and trying to look alluring.

With his amusement still so obvious Stiles should flush, or even get angry, Peter pushed both of Stiles legs up high over his shoulders. His face split into a grin as he prepared Stiles and then fucked him thoroughly. He took his time, like there was no hurry, no matter the names Stiles called him or how he pleaded. When Stiles accused him of trying to send him mad, he merely did something wickedly vicious to a surprisingly sensitive spot on Stiles’ neck, and continued with his ministrations while Stiles quaked.

He finally allowed Stiles to orgasm after centuries of torture. Stiles’ whole body shook violently, he made enough noise to wake the whole district, and still Peter wasn’t done. He wrung out every feeling Stiles was capable of before he himself came, and Stiles was barely cognizant enough to tell. He was delirious. And babbling. He might have told Peter he was the devil, but it could hardly be held against him. If Peter was going to destroy every single brain cell Stiles owned, then he had to deal with the consequences.

Stiles slept. Or maybe passed out. He couldn’t have roused himself enough to get home by that point, and thankfully Peter didn’t try to kick him out.

 

When Stiles woke up, hazy summer sunshine was pouring through huge windows that showed a view of the city that people would pay millions for. Of course, Peter had probably done just that. Or maybe his family business had.

Stiles rolled over before he really knew where he was, and surprised himself by not finding the end of the bed. It took a few minutes of groping and wondering before he accepted that he was at Peter’s. He had spent the night with a significantly older and incredibly richer guy. This was how toy boys were made. In his career guidance, not one counsellor had suggested finding a sugar daddy. That was definitely a flaw in the system. Stiles could totally see himself living like this!

He stretched out. He was naked and sore and tired, but that was fine. He had no place to be. He had the evening shift at the coffee bar, which he was really hoping to say good bye to, soon. And there was no Peter trying to push him to go.

He stumbled out the bedroom with just yesterday’s underwear on, and went in search of his one night stand. In the warm light of day the apartment was just as attractive and understated as it had appeared the previous night. Stiles wondered how much it would cost to get a place like this.

In the kitchen he found a coffee machine, a mug and a note. The note was only of secondary importance until the coffee was made, but Stiles was not surprised by the words when he finally got to read them. It was a general ‘thanks for a great time, maybe see you around.’ No unnecessary commitment to a repeat performance, but not closing the door either. Stiles didn’t really get the impression he was expected to do the looking, though.

He went home smelling of booze and sex, and had a shower before Scott could call him out on it. He didn’t realise his phone was out of battery until he had got out of the shower and tried to check the time. He plugged it in and got out his laptop. No emails, not much on his social media accounts, which left just a bit of time for watching some Netflix before work. So he didn’t see the message until he was on his way to the coffee shop, his uniform looking its usual tacky self.

He knew what he expected. A thanks but no thanks, a maybe you could try a different approach in interviews, you came across a bit aggressive and a bit crazy.

“Good morning, Stiles,” Talia Hale’s voice began, “I wanted to thank you for coming in yesterday.”

Stiles nearly hung up. He nearly walked into a hot dog stand in the street. He managed to avoid it and keep listening.

“We were very impressed by the strategies you outlined during your interview…”

Stiles waited for the ‘but’.

“And we’d very much like to offer you a role with the company.”

Stiles dropped his phone.

 


	2. Chapter 2

An outfit for Stiles’ first day was a challenging decision. He needed to look smart, like an efficient and lucrative employee, but he had to avoid being too dull. He’d got the job by being pretty outrageous at interview (who knew a company as old and established as Hale actually meant it when they said they wanted something different?) and if he showed up in something too mundane, they might come to their senses. Then again, he couldn’t go too far out of the box, either.

The outfit wasn’t the only challenging decision he’d made. He’d been very uncertain about taking the job in the first place. He needed a job, of course, and this one was the best he could have imagined and he was so lucky to get it. Had he been religious, he would have been praying or something. But, he’d made a poor decision based on the assumption he had not gotten the job. And this was going to be awkward.

But he wouldn’t necessarily see Peter Hale. Sure, he’d applied to work in Peter Hale’s department, but Stiles was going to be totally lowly, an intern, a dogsbody. He would barely register on Peter Hale’s radar. Which had to be how it would be. Peter Hale had lied to him, totally misled him, let him believe there was no way on God’s green Earth that Stiles would ever be employed by the Hale Company, and then taken advantage of his disappointed and drunken state. In a totally consensual way.

And it had been totally fucking consensual. Peter had basically made Stiles agree to that a million times. Hales’ actions were merely morally dubious, not even reprehensible really.

Maybe Hale just wanted to fuck him before he was an employee. That was possible. After Stiles signed all the contracts, Peter would be his boss, and then there would be no fucking. So Peter had got it out of the way beforehand. And now there would be no illicit meetings of any kind. Now they’d not even need to talk, because the sex had happened, and now Stiles was moving on.

After hours of indecision, Stiles had decided to outsource the fashion decisions to someone who actually knew about such things, and had taken every single ounce of Lydia Martin’s advice on professionalism and style. He wore the clothes she prescribed down to his socks, not even using his own judgement to select his underwear. But then he spilt milk from his cereal down his front, and hurriedly changed into something less well planned. But it was probably a good call. He looked hot. Not that Greek God at the interview hot, but totally Peter Parker on a good day hot. Hollywood pretend geek hot. Take the glasses off, put on some blusher and all the men would fall at his feet hot.

He arrived at the building in plenty of time, and was greeted by a young guy who showed him to the department and to his own little space in the open plan office and introduced him to a small team. His first day was mapped out for him, and only half an hour of it was a scheduled one on one meeting with Peter. It totally could have been worse.

He got his ID badge, his computer login, he had a meeting with HR, filled in forms and signed piles of paper. Employment with the Hale Company came with great benefits, everything you could need and more. He would have been mad to turn down this job. It was going to be fine.

His meeting with Hale was quite early on, which probably should have been expected. His boss would need to fill him in on what was expected of him, at least in the short term, probably before he actually started on any work. Hale’s office was every bit as well decorated and resourced as his apartment. Stiles had to work hard to appear entirely unimpressed. He knew who Peter was. He knew what he was going to have at his disposal. He knew he was a show off.

Stiles knocked as he entered. The door was open, so he didn’t think he had to wait outside, but Peter was in the middle of a call. Stiles listened, because he had a lot to learn about the business, not because he was massively curious, he told himself, though that was a lie. He didn’t follow much of it, really, and Peter ended it pretty quickly, and gave Stiles a wicked smile.

“Stiles,” he greeted. “Welcome to…”

“You lied, you bastard!”

Stiles’ brain had had no intention of saying those words, or interrupting his new boss, and definitely knew insulting his new boss was stupid, but for some reason Stiles’ mouth had chosen to do all three with no permission whatsoever.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever lied to you,” Peter replied smoothly, “Though I will ask you to close the door if you intend to be entirely candid today.”

Stiles flushed, then went to close the door, and returned to sit in front of Peter’s desk. He bit his lip because his mouth was stupid.

“I never spoke any untrue words, Stiles,” said Peter, “I told you that no actions we took would impact on who was chosen for the role. The decision was already taken when we met in that bar.”

“Which was a total coincidence?!” Stiles snapped.

Peter raised an eyebrow, “Are you accusing me of following you home from your interview?”

That didn’t work, did it? Peter had taken a few hours to show up at the bar. He couldn’t have been stalking him. “No,” said Stiles, reluctantly.

“Good,” said Peter, “It was no fault of mine you had chosen to sit right in the window of a bar I was passing that evening.”

He looked at his computer screen while Stiles floundered for how to answer that. Before Stiles could get his thoughts in anything like an order, Peter was speaking again.

“Of course, there is no reason our actions should have an adverse effect on the situation at work. You were chosen because of your clear talents, I must say your ideas blew the other applicant’s out of the water. My sister liked you very much. The only slight objection was from Derek, but he seemed incapable of fully explaining that objection, so we chose to ignore it.”

“Derek?” Stiles repeated.

Peter looked back at Stiles. “My nephew. You remember him from the interview?”

Stiles managed to stop the words ‘Greek God’ finding their way towards his mouth by limiting his answer to “Oh, yeah.”

“Now, that does cause a small problem, because you will need to work with Derek on some of our projects, but I’m certain you can both be professional about it.”

Stiles blinked, understanding what he meant. Greek God had actively disliked Stiles. Peter was warning him that this Derek guy was going to be a problem.

“Uh, thanks for the heads up,” said Stiles. “So…”

He wanted Peter to just say bluntly if he wanted to continue with the sex. The admittedly very excellent sex. It was not OK to continue with the sex, but Stiles really wanted some sex. Peter didn’t help him out though. He just waited, face a mask of patient expectation, for Stiles to come up with a full question.

“So…” Stiles searched for something not sex related to ask his new boss, “Uh… is there a code of the copier?”

Peter so obviously knew that wasn’t what Stiles wanted to ask. He knew it and he revelled in it. He was totally enjoying Stiles’ social anxiety. Stiles should totally sue him. Probably.

The older man smiled, and referred Stiles to the paperwork he’d been given by HR. Then he recommended Stiles ask Derek. Then he dismissed Stiles, and Stiles really, really wanted to punch him. He didn’t. But he did carefully knock over one of Peter’s chairs on the way out.

…

Derek Hale turned out to have a serious attitude problem.

He barely grunted at Stiles when he came to say hi, and didn’t say anything more until they’d both moved to a formal meeting room. His mumbled explanation of the current projects was stiff and formal, like a self-conscious preteen explaining a school project. He may be one of the most beautiful people Stiles had ever met, but the level of dislike Stiles was beginning to feel in return was blotting out all other feelings he may have felt.

Stiles gave his input, sticking to the style he hadn’t quite chosen in the interview – brash and overconfident. Whenever he spoke, Derek watched without comment, and every time he stopped, Derek argued with each and every word he’d used, to the point that Stiles was sorely tempted to tell him that the sky was blue just to see him disagree.

And he was big. And kind of alarming. Like, Stiles couldn’t help but be aware that Derek Hale could crush him between his hands. That was a particularly stupid thought, in a work place with a heavy reliance on technology. This was not supposed to be the lair of the sports jock. This was supposed to be Stiles’ home turf. Even if Derek was the son of the woman who ran the company, Stiles was in his element. If only Derek would let him get a full sentence out.

“Do you have a problem?” Stiles spat after the bastard had interrupted him for the millionth time.

Derek’s eyebrows were more expressive than his lips. They were heavy weights over his eyes, like clouds promising a storm. They were fucking stupid. Sties wanted to poke them.

“Do I have a problem with your juvenile suggestions and your inability to discourse in a professional manner? Is that your question, Stilinski?”

“Juvenile?” Stiles repeated, aghast, “Did you just call me juvenile?”

“Yes, I did because you are. You’re a kid, with some stupid ideas and a big mouth.”

“Or you’re some prematurely middle aged guy!” Stiles accused, “You think you learned everything there was to know about business ten years ago and now you just sit back and repeat it until your dead?”

Derek’s eyebrows twitched. “How old do you think I am?”

“Like, forty, maybe,” said Stiles, because if he’d found something that would fluster Derek he was totally gonna use it. Not because Derek looked forty.

The eyebrows went higher, then lower, very, very lower. “I knew this was a stupid idea,” Derek growled.

Stiles flailed, “You came to the meeting knowing you were going to be a closeminded idiot?”

“I knew employing you was stupid,” said Derek, “You were crazy at your interview. I thought you were drunk.”

Stiles couldn’t be offended by that. He kind of agreed. Still, he had to answer. “Yeah, because you came across as a fine and sociable guy from a Jane Austin novel!”

“We’re not getting anywhere,” Derek grumbled, “When you’ve figured out how to hold a grown up meeting, come find me.”

“Or when you’ve discovered that Smart Phones are a thing? Have you even stopped complaining about them putting cameras in phones?”

“We’re done here,” said Derek, standing up.

“Because you need to go buy yourself a new fax machine?”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“Ah, has your wit gone with the onset of your Alzheimer’s?”

And Derek was gone, out the door. His anger hung about behind him, and Stiles couldn’t help but feel kind of self-satisfied about how much he’d managed to annoy the guy. It didn’t last long. Soon he was wondering what would happen if he couldn’t get on with the son of the head of the company. Because if anyone was going to get the sack, it wasn’t going to be Derek.

Stiles swore a bit. He spent the rest of the day getting to know the office, sorting out his emails, reading company policies and other stuff, and searching his own contract for how easy it would be for them to fire him. It seemed worryingly easy. He could be gone in a day.

How could he find a way to get on with Derek? It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t pick on Derek. Derek had just met him and hated him. It wasn’t unheard of; Stiles had met people who didn’t like him before. Jackson Whittemore hated him for no good reason, and his high school chemistry teacher had loathed him, though Harris had hated everyone. It just had never seemed to matter much before.

He groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

“Having a good first day?”

Stiles looked up with a groan. He already recognised that voice. Peter Hale stood in the doorway through which Derek had stormed. He looked thoroughly entertained.

“Great,” said Stiles, “I’m a smash hit with all concerned.”

Peter nodded, “You didn’t manage to convert Derek?”

Stiles shrugged, “It’s a mystery,” he said, sardonically, “I’m a total knockout in every way. Why wouldn’t a handsome, educated straight guy find me complete irresistible?”

“Inexplicable,” Peter agreed. “You want a drink?”

Alarm bells should have begun to ring at the words. A siren should have sounded. Sexual harassment in the workplace. Except Stiles didn’t really feel harassed.

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he said, honestly.

Peter hummed. “You know, there is no other human experience that we unnecessarily moralise like we do sex,” he said. “There are actions that cause actual damage to people. Driving a car poisons the planet and puts people at risk of death, but we don’t question whether it is a good idea. Every day you buy clothes without thinking about the conditions the workers who make them live in. But whether or not two people have sex is something that everyone considers their business. And everybody wants to label as right or wrong.”

As Peter spoke, Stiles stared. “Wow, you’ll get philosophical to get your own way.”

Peter stepped closer to Stiles, the desire in his face clear. “I won’t insult your intelligence, Stiles,” he said, “I want to have sex with you again. This would be another casual encounter which need have no impact on our working relationship or your professional role. It would be no more significant than if we were to go to have a drink or watch a movie. It is not an offer of a serious relationship, nor an offer of promotion. If you do not wish to have sex with me, I will not take offence, nor cause any difficulties at work. I will respect your decision.”

The older man had rolled up his sleeves, revealing a small and appealing amount of forearm. Stiles had a poorly timed mental images of those arms manhandling him. It was sorely tempting.

“Stiles” said Peter, “Are there truthful, genuine reasons not to?”

“Yes!” Stiles replied.

Peter looked at him, his lips in a smile. An evil smile. A sexy smile.

“You’re a dick,” Stiles told Peter, honestly.

Peter shrugged, as though he were helpless to avoid dickish behaviour.

Stiles thought about Derek’s shoulders. They were so well defined, so big, so beautiful. But permanently attached to that personality. Not to mention the eyebrows.

He had no real reasons not to have sex with Peter. And he could really do with some sex. Some passionate, angry sex sounded real good.

“I’ll be at yours in half an hour,” he told Peter.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

So, apparently, agreeing to a second night with Peter Hale is synonymous with agreeing to a series of very athletically demanding and morally ambiguous sexual activities. And Stiles really enjoyed every single one, though he would never have admitted to trying even a single one in public.

By the time Stiles was lying, almost unconscious, beside Peter, who somehow managed to carry off naked with more confidence and style than most people would have carried off a designer wardrobe, Stiles felt like he might have been doing an extreme martial art. He was stretched in all ways, and aching, and hugely humiliated, but so satiated, he didn’t think he could move. He was made of rubber. He was drenched in sweat and breathless. He must have been made senseless.

This had been a really, very, exceptionally poor decision. This man, who had, at one point, put parts of his anatomy and some everyday objects, into parts of Stiles’ anatomy where they had no right to be, was Stiles’ boss! Stiles had to see him every day! He’d have to go past his office knowing exactly what it felt like for this guy to spank him. And worse, he didn’t even have the excuse of alcohol this time.

“You planning on staying or going?” Peter asked, genuinely casually. It really didn’t matter to him. Stiles guessed that shouldn’t be a surprise.

“Uh, I guess I’m going?” he said, uncertainly.

Peter sat up and looked at him. “Stiles, you can stay if you want. I don’t mind.”

Stiles thought about it. Weighing up the issue of having to get up and find clothes and move right now against the issues of having to wake up in the morning, after this rather wonderful post-sex glow had worn off. “Uh… no … I should really go…”

Peter lay back down, “OK. I’ll call you a cab.”

Stiles cringed, “No… I can’t… I haven’t had my first pay check yet.”

Peter smacked him on the shoulder, a gentle scold. “I’ll pay for your cab,” he said. “I’m not completely lacking in social niceties.”

“Really?” said Stiles.

Peter smirked. “Are you hinting dissatisfaction with your treatment, Mr Stilinski?”

“Yeah,” Stiles confirmed, “You’ve made my legs forget their job.”

He made Peter laugh, a mix of cruelty and satisfaction. “You’re easily pleased.”

“Fuck you!” Stiles replied, but it was too whiney.

“Only if you’re very good,” said Peter with a grin.

Stiles groaned. He did not need more images in his head. It was time to get up. He forced himself to sit, groaning in a completely different way when his weight rested on his ass, and then more or less shoved himself off the bed.

“Sexy,” Peter commented sarcastically when Stiles landed on two knees and one hand.

“Yep, I’m one hot sex machine, and don’t you forget it,” Stiles replied, without missing a beat. He stumbled around the room in search of his clothes, as Peter made a quick call.

“The cab’s going to be another twenty minutes,” Peter told him before he was fully dressed. “Want to see how many times I can make you come before then?”

“Oh God,” Stiles groaned. “I’ve got work in the morning.”

Peter, somehow still holding all the command and poise he did at work, even though he was now totally naked and Stiles wasn’t, merely shrugged, “You’re twenty two, you’ll survive.”

Stiles forced his brain into gear. “No, I gotta go. I’ve gotta be on my A game tomorrow. I gotta make Derek not hate me.”

“You could try screwing him,” said Peter.

Stiles’ jaw dropped.

“What? Just… what? You… you… what?”

Peter was still fiddling with his phone, maybe sending a message, maybe checking his email, but something totally casual. “It’s the most efficient method of getting someone on your side that I can think of,” he said.

Still flummoxed, Stiles’ jaw stayed dropped, “But… why… you just…”

“Well, it’s your call,” said Peter. “I don’t really do small talk. You can grab yourself a coffee or whatever, or you can just wait in the living room. Or you can let me make you come in your pants, but you already said no.”

Stiles stared a moment longer, as Peter continued with whatever it was on the phone. Then he turned and went into the living room. It didn’t help soothe his brain, particularly thinking about what Peter had done when Stiles was pressed against the huge window that looked over the city. He only groaned once more.

He was so fucked.

…

He’d intended to get to work early. He had to get prepared; had to get Derek a coffee or some other peace offering; he had to plan how he’d approach him; he had to create a whole plan of action to persuade him that Stiles was much cleverer than him and he should shut up and accept all of Stiles’ ideas as gospel. Without actually saying that. The point was, he had loads to do and needed to get up early to do it.

He’d failed.

Apparently, it turned out that sleeping with Peter Hale was not only incredibly hot, it was also totally exhausting. When Stiles had gotten home, he pulled off his clothes, fell onto his bed, and when he woke up, his alarm was blaring. And not his first alarm. Not even his emergency alarm. It was the one that he set on hugely loud to help Scott wake up.

He wailed and fell out of bed, shouting a couple of times at Scott who also needed to be up, but Stiles had other priorities. His clothes from yesterday were in a pile on the floor, and he’d failed to plan his outfit, so he pulled together some stuff from his wardrobe and, realising he had no time to shower, shoved it all on.

He sorted out his hair on the subway, gaining some looks that showed derision. Subway windows made pretty bad mirrors. His phone wasn’t much better. He hadn’t had time to shave, just scraped his teeth with a toothbrush, and he looked a fucking mess. He hoped Derek was into the homeless look.

He stumbled into the Hale building at quarter to ten, with no coffee or peace offering for Derek, and no plan for reconciliation. It was not his finest hour.

“Well, hello there, sleepy head,” greeted one of his new colleagues, the guy who showed him around yesterday. 

“Hey, Isaac,” he grumbled. “Do me a favour and pretend I’ve been here for hours?”

“Oh sure,” said Isaac, happily.

“Thanks dude,” Stiles sighed.

“If anyone asks, I’ll say you said you’d been here for hours,” said Isaac.

“Uh… it would be better if you just said I _had_ been here for hours,” Stiles explained. “Sounds more, you know, believable…”

“Oh, no, that’s nothing like so believable,” Isaac replied.

Stiles stared for a moment, “Dude! We’re supposed to have each other’s back.”

Isaac shrugged, “Yeah, maybe? But there’s literally nobody who would believe you.”

Stiles flailed in disbelief, “Dude! I’ll get you coffee for a week!”

Isaac picked up his phone, “Cool,” he said, then added into the phone, “Derek, Stiles is here.”

“He means I’ve been here for hours!” Stiles called down the phone.

“Yep, he says he’ll get me coffee for a week if I say he’s been here for hours,” said Isaac. While Stiles used common hand gestures to communicate his opinion on that, he listened to the voice on the phone. “OK, I’ll tell him.”

Isaac put the phone down while Stiles glared.

“Derek says he’s been waiting for you since eight thirty.”

Stiles swore.

“Yeah,” Isaac agreed, “You’ve got a meeting with him. Now.”

Stiles swore again.

“Yeah,” Isaac agreed. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

Stiles let his head droop, and lurched zombie style to the meeting room. He had messed up, yet again. He had to play nice. Like super nice. Like the sort of nice he’d never actually been in his whole life. Nicer even than he was to Scott.

“Hey, Derek,” he greeted, with a smile, “So, funny story, I…”

“Was late and tried to get your colleagues to lie about it,” Derek, who was sat with arms folded but somehow looking even bigger than ever, concluded for him, “Great work.”

Stiles tried not to focus on the way the man’s arms fit in his shirt, and aimed again, for companionable and friendly colleague, “Uh, yeah, but… I’ve got a great excuse, so…”

“Oh really?” said Derek, flatly.

“Yes, really,” Stiles snapped, angry at the implication that he was lying. Even though he was lying. “So, my roommate has really bad asthma and…”

Derek interrupted what was bound to be a Stiles Stilinski excuse masterpiece, “Stilinski, it’s your second day.”

“I know!” Stiles protested. “As I was saying, my roommate…”

“I told Ms Hale you were unprofessional. I knew…”

Stiles grabbed Derek’s jacket sleeve, “Did you just refer to your mom as ‘Ms Hale’?”

Derek scowled, “She is the CEO…”

“Yeah, I know,” said Stiles, “And your mom!”

“You see?” Derek shoved Stiles’ hand away. If he’d had feathers, he would have ruffled them, “You have no idea how to behave in a corporate environment. You’re juvenile and irresponsible…”

“I overslept one time!” Stiles protested.

“Oh, so it wasn’t your roommate’s asthma?” Derek asked with too much emphasis on the sarcasm.

Stiles rolled his eyes, “It was one mistake!”

“Everything you do!” Derek snapped, “You’re a walking disaster!”

Stiles’ jaw was probably level with his ankles. Derek was saying that stuff without even knowing Stiles was fucking his uncle? It was inexplicable. “What the fuck did I do to you?” he cried, furious and devastated. He didn’t have the self-confidence to deal with this shit.

“This isn’t personal, Stilinski,” Derek told him, nastily. “This is professional. And you just don’t have it in you to do this job.”

And with that, once again, Derek Hale walked out on Stiles. But this time, Stiles wasn’t entirely angry. Self-doubt was very real. It clawed at his throat and poked at his eyes, daring him to cry. Stiles sniffed, and glowered. He had to turn it back into hate, or he’d make a total fool of himself right here in the meeting room. He tried to picture Derek Hale on his knees, kissing Stiles’ feet. It didn't work. 

After shouting at the meeting room, a wordless roar of fury that helped only minimally, he made his way back into the open plan part of the office. Isaac was still sat at his desk, looking at something on his computer screen, hand on the mouse and clicking lazily.

“Feel better?” he asked, slyly.

He fully deserved the sarcastic smile Stiles sent his way.

Isaac continued clicking, “Why does he hate you so much? Did you steal his girlfriend or something?”

Somehow, Stiles felt worse, “You mean, this isn’t just how he treats all the new guys?”

“No way,” said Isaac, “When I was new, he was totally cool. He even let me stay with him when things were going badly. Did you run over his puppy?”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles stormed off to his own desk, but now with a new fear. Isaac assumed Stiles had actually done something wrong. And Stiles had totally done something wrong. He’d fucked Derek’s uncle. More than once. What was Derek likely to do if he found out?

…

 

An hour later, he was asked to go to a meeting in the office of Thalia Hale.

He was asked by Thalia’s assistant, and though he was totally polite over the internal phone system she’d used to contact him, he relished the swear words he came out with when he put the phone down.

He repeated his swear words a bunch of times. They helped, and made Isaac scowl, which was somehow even better, except it didn’t alleviate his current problem. Why was he being called out by Thalia Hale? It was his second day and he was a lowly junior member of staff. He should have been totally below the radar.

Except he’d been fucking his boss. Stiles swore again. Talia somehow knew about the Peter thing. Maybe he’d been seen leaving Peters, or maybe Peter had had his fill of Stiles sex and now wanted rid. Maybe Peter had expected Stiles to say no. Maybe he wanted Stiles to have a bit of self-respect, and now Peter had intimate knowledge of the depravities Stiles would acquiesce to, he had no desire to have him inside his sister’s business.

Maybe Peter had told Thalia about the window thing. Or even just the unnatural use of a tea spoon. That would be enough to make Thalia rethink hiring him.

Stiles rubbed his face with his hands. He was being unreasonable. Everything he had done, Peter had done too. In fact, Stiles was pretty confident that Peter had instigated the activities. Stiles probably wouldn’t have minded some more normal sex. Their first round had been basically normal except for Peter’s slight use of torture. Oh God, he could not discuss any of this with Thalia Hale, a woman whose business had provided so much inspiration and awakened so much admiration in Stiles.

He made his awkward and embarrassed way to Talia’s office, vaguely imagining trying to explain being fired on his second day to his dad. And Scott. Though Scott was partly to blame, for completely failing to stop Stiles from sleeping with his creepy boss. Twice.

He was waved through by Talia Hale’s personal assistant, who barely looked up from her computer screen. Apparently he was of no interest. So this probably had nothing to do with the teaspoon. Or Talia was so disgusted, she’d kept it all secret.

Inside the office were Talia and Derek. The former was sat at her desk, hands folded in front of her, tiredly, and an expression of motherly patience on her face. The latter was standing angrily to the side. There was no sign of Peter. That could be a positive or a negative, it was hard to say.

“Hi,” Stiles greeted, tentatively, “they said you wanted to see me?”

“Yes, thank Stiles,” Talia said with a smile, “Please, sit down.”

Stiles nodded, and obeyed, but looked at Derek, who continued to glower.

Talia also looked at her son, her eyebrows raised expectantly, “Derek?” she prompted.

Though his frown deepened, Derek obeyed the implied request. He sat beside Stiles with his emotions poorly hidden.

“Uh…” said Stiles.

“So,” Talia interrupted before Stiles could begin some nonsense that wouldn’t help. “Derek tells me that he is concerned at some of your behaviour.”

“That’s so unfair!” Stiles cried. “I haven’t…”

But Talia put up a hand to silence him. “Stiles, I would like to say everything I have to say before I hear your thoughts on it. Please.”

Stiles snapped his mouth closed, and stared.

“Thank you,” Talia said, “As I was saying, Derek has spent some time trying to convince me that you are unsuited for this position. However, I am inclined to give someone more than a couple of days before I make decisions on their competence.”

Stiles’ heart calmed down, and he let some of his tension go.

Talia continued. “I was sad to hear that the two of you have not managed to find some common ground yet…”

Derek grunted, and was rewarded with a quelling look from his mother. He didn’t voice any other thoughts.

“Derek has shown himself to be unwilling to try to overcome these issues.” Here Talia showed only disappointment, and Stiles was relieved to find it wasn’t aimed at him. “Now, we have scheduled the new marketing strategy for the new year, which leaves us some months to get our ideas settled. I would like to reconvene in two weeks, at which time, you will both present your ideas. I would like to keep this issue as low key as possible, so Peter and I alone will make the final decision.”

Talia seemed to have finished. She sat back further in her seat and regarded them patiently.

“You want a presentation in two weeks?” Stiles confirmed. “From each of us?”

“That is correct,” Talia agreed.

“And what happens to the loser?” Derek asked, making Stiles shiver.

“I shall decide that closer to the time,” said Talia, “I was rather hoping you two might realise your presentation would better if you worked together than any you can create separately.”

Neither Stiles nor Derek responded to that. Sighing, Talia dismissed them. They left the office together, shoulder to shoulder, and almost had a ridiculous moment in the doorway when neither wanted to give way for the other. Stiles let Derek through with a sarcastic wave, which made Derek even angrier.

“So… got told off by your Mom?” Stiles asked, with amusement.

Derek glared harder, “When you fail to produce a cohesive presentation, we’ll have this conversation again.”

“Oh come on, Derek,” said Stiles, “Just stop being a douche!”

“You stop being a douche!” Derek replied, “You’re a menace.”

“This whole competition is a huge waste of time,” said Stiles, “We should be working on real strategies! Not ways to destroy each other.”

Derek glowered. “You don’t fool me, Stilinski,” he said. “I know what you are.”

He turned and walked away, while Stiles shouted after him “What? What am I? What the fuck does that mean?”

Derek didn’t tell him.

 

 


End file.
